Roads Diverged
by Guile
Summary: A Hero teeters on the brink of a life altering decision.
1. Not In Kansas

A/N: This idea, like most of my good ideas, came to me at 1 am and demanded to be written. Like it? Don't? Review and tell me why.

Disclaimer: Fable is Lionhead Studio's. I'm just playing around with it.

- - -

The Hero stared down at the sword clenched in his fist. The sword for which Jack of Blades had put him through so much grief: the Sword of Aeons. It glowed and sparked, a coruscating light show winding its way up and down the blade. And he had a decision to make.

His sister Theresa had given him an ultimatum; throw away the sword and all the power it represented, or kill her to keep it. She wouldn't accept any other outcome. And so he did what any man would do when presented with the choice of ultimate power...

He waffled.

With the Sword of Aeons in his grip, none would oppose him. He could feel the immense power of it; with it, he knew that he could bring order to the entire world of Albion. Hell, he could remake the world into the image of his ideal. And all it would cost him was a single act of murder, the death of his last blood-kin, who he had devoted his life to rescuing.

His Seeress sister smiled at him, the cockeyed smile she'd adopted from her time as the second-in-command of the notorious bandit boss Twinblade. "Having trouble deciding? Let me help you out, brother dear." She placed both palms against his face, and drew him down so she could see him eye-to-eye. Well... eye-to-blindfold, anyhow. As he stared at her, not attempting to break free, she reached out and enveloped him with her power, the odd magic unique to their bloodline that he'd never completely understood.

Reality shifted, tilting on its axis. Things blurred and spun, like he was on the third day of a week-long drinking binge. He closed his eyes, trying to find his balance as the world turned inside out. Gradually, he steadied. The ground under his feet stopped feeling as if it were going to rebel and toss him into space. He became aware that Theresa was no longer holding him, and he opened his eyes.

What met his gaze was something about as far from what he expected as it was possible to be. This was not the ruined guildhall, and the fluctuating portal of writhing energy that he'd been standing on the precipice of. Instead, it was a forest, the leaves turned the red and gold of autumn. It rather reminded him of Orchard Farm, and his first big mission that pit him against Whisper.

But there was something odd about this yellow wood. It seemed unreal, somehow. As if it were a picture out of a storybook, and not Albion as he knew it at all. He pondered the oddness for a time, painfully aware that this was Theresa's area of expertise, not his. If you wanted a monster slain, he was the one to call. Puzzles were more up his sister's alley.

Gradually, he became aware of two figures standing a ways off. Their features were oddly hazy, as though a localized fog had sprung up, just for them.

He walked towards them, gradually closing the gap. As he did so, their forms became more distinct, until finally, he came to a stop. "Who..." He swallowed. "Who are you?"

The figure on the left smiled at him warmly. He was a white-haired man with a truly grand mustache, old but in excellent shape. He wore platemail so bright it seemed to sparkle, even in the dim light filtering through the dense autumn foliage. He was leaning on a gold-banded club nearly as tall as he was that pulsated with a silver light. Butterflies danced and spun around him, and his bright blue eyes showed a man both incredibly wise and completely at peace with himself. As he turned to regard the displaced Hero, a halo of ethereal light encircled his head.

"I am called Paladin. The disciple of Avo and protector of the innocent. Evil will not stand as long as I exist."

The other figure was the shadow to Paladin's light. He seemed swathed in a darkness that had little to do with his dark red garments. Over his shoulder was a black bow of twisted design, dominated by a single ruby-red eye. His face was bone-white, and small horns protruded from his shaven head. A halo of flies buzzed around him, and he gave off a red miasma that even at this distance felt like evil intent made solid. His lips were twisted in a cruel smirk, and the devil danced in his eyes.

"I am the Necromancer. Skorm's apprentice. Listen to me, kid, and you'll go far," he said persuasively. "Power is the only true commodity in this world. And if you have to kill or betray a few people along the way to get what you want, well..." he grinned. "You know what they say: can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

The Hero licked his lips. "What is this place?"

Paladin shook his head and told him, "A place given form by the combination of Theresa's magic and your own. But that isn't important right now. What's important is what you're doing here." The Necromancer butted in with, "You're here to make a choice, kid."

Paladin frowned at the embodiment of evil, but nodded agreement. "We are could-haves and should-haves and might-have-beens. And there are many of us in this place."

He was apparently still looking bewildered, because the Necromancer said, "We're you. Or rather, we are what you have been and are and might become." There was a strong undertone of _'duh, idiot'_ in his voice.

"Go," commanded the old man. "See what there is to see, and learn what you may."

With that, they each placed a hand on one of his arms and propelled him forward. And when he looked back, they were gone.


	2. Three Heroes Walk Into A Bar

The Hero sighed, annoyed. He'd been walking for several minutes through this wood, and he'd yet to run into another soul. This was, bar none, the _worst_ hallucination he'd ever had. Even worse than that time he'd tried the blue mushroom and spent hours declaring that he was the Wasp Queen.

As if in answer to his waning patience, a figure bedecked in chainmail stepped out from behind a tree that looked far too small to hide his massive frame. A gigantic sword was strapped to his back in a leather baldric. The Hero tried to remember where he'd seen it before, before he recalled the sword in the stone that overlooked the temple of Avo. It was the very same: the Harbinger.

"It's about time someone showed up," the Hero said snarkily in greeting. "I was about to turn around and head back to reality."

The metal-encased man snorted loudly. "As if you knew how."

"Hey now," the Hero objected. "Aren't you me, sort of? No need to go insulting yourself like that."

Loud, raucous laughter greeted him, though it didn't come from the man standing before him. The Hero turned, and came face to face with two people who were almost exact replicas of himself, one dressed in bandit gear and the other bare-chested to show off a rather neat golden tattoo, and wearing a truly monstrous purple felt hat. The bandit jumped into the conversation with, "No, you'll be hanging around until you realize some sort of profound self-truth. A bloody revelation, you know? That's how these things work."

The Hero put a hand over his face, feeling oddly embarrassed. "Okay, what are you guys supposed to be?"

"Hood, at your service," the bandit Hero said. "I'm the head of the biggest bandit gang in all of Albion. Co-head, I guess, me and Twinblade and Theresa."

"So, you're what... evil?"

"Nah. Just larcenous. I made them quit that kidnapping and raping of the women shit. Way I figure it, Albion has enough goody-goody Heroes to last them a while, they won't miss one more." His gaze sharpened. "And I was tired of being jerked around and led by the nose. Maze, the Guildmaster, Jack of Blades, my whole grand destiny... fuck 'em."

The Hero considered that. "Makes sense. They are some real pain-in-the-arses, aren't they." It wasn't a question. He turned back to the man in chainmail. "What about you?"

"Gladiator," he identified himself. "Current and undefeated Champion of the Arena, Master of the Bloody Sands, and God of Battle."

The Hero couldn't hold back a small grin. "Any other titles you'd care to share with the rest of the class?"

"Does 'Whisper's Lover' count?"

The guy in the felt hat (The Hero refused to think of any version of himself as having that bad a taste in fashion. Not that a man in platemail could be throwing a lot of stones regarding attractiveness, but by the gods, a man should have some standards) let out a low whistle. "Nicely done, chap. Now that's one bird who I never could entice into the sack." He offered a wolfish grin. "She's just about the only one, though."

The Hero did his best to ignore the weirdo. "I refuse to believe you're me." Hood, the bandit boss, nodded companionably and muttered, "I know _exactly_ how you feel, friend."

The man in the purple hat stroked his rather ridiculous muttonchop sideburns. "Believe what you want, buddy, but we're all the same bloke, here."

"The Pimp, at your service." He grinned lecherously and added, "if you happen to be female, anyway." He tacked on an obscene gesture to make his meaning absolutely clear. "If you know what I mean. I'm the owner of the Darkwood bordello."

The Hero just stared at his doppelganger for a minute in silence, before shaking his head, turning around, and walking away. If these guys had some profound self-truth to tell him, he didn't really want to hear it. "Hey!" the Pimp called, annoyed. "I had some truths to tell ya! Profound, meaningful truths!" The Hero flipped him the bird and kept walking. They didn't attempt to follow.

Just before they were lost to sight, he heard the Pimp say, "What a prick. This blows. I'm out of here."

- - -

A/N: I've had this written for probably six months. Kept messing around with it, but I don't think it's going to get any better, so here it is.


	3. Kneel Before Eggzor

A/N: The review about Chicken Chaser made me remember that godawful chicken hat in the updated Fable, and... drumroll please here he is. And I'd originally intended this to be a more serious fic, but with guys like Chicken Chaser and Arseface to use... well. Not to mention, I think I lost any claim to seriousness when I added the Pimp to the lineup.

- - -

The Hero kept walking, following the winding dirt path through the brightly-colored forest. Anywhere in this entire messed up dreamscape had to be better than being back there with the pimp wearing his face. All he knew was, it was a good thing this shit was all in his mind, or he'd probably die of shame. Just imagining the ribbing he'd get from Whisper, or Briar Rose, for this...

He shuddered.

Gradually, he realized that someone was keeping pace beside him. The man was totally silent; the only sound he made was the sound of his footsteps crunching through fallen leaves. The Hero turned his head to get a better look at his new companion, and kind of wished he hadn't. This new incarnation was dressed entirely in black, and his clean-shaven face was tattooed into the shape of a snarling beast. Likewise, what was visible of his belly and most of his chest through his vest was covered in a tattoo of a large Balverine skull. He gave off a very distinct vibe of 'crazy psycho killer', which was further emphasized by the very nasty-looking serrated, barbed blade that was slung through his belt.

The rapid beat of running feet had him whirling around, though he was careful to keep at least one eye on his new Balverine buddy. That was very definitely not a man to turn your back on.

The Hero's muscles relaxed somewhat, as he saw that the newcomer was Hood, the bandit boss he'd just left behind. At this point, he'd probably have welcomed anybody short of Jack of Blades, as long as he wasn't alone with 'Crazy Eyes' anymore. Hood fell into step on his other side, wandering along as though he were just taking in the scenery.

"Sooo..." the Hero drew out the word. "What're you doing here, Hood?"

The bandit boss shrugged, hands stuffed into his vest pockets. "Figured I'd tag along, see where this went. Call me curious, mate." Hood added, "I see Slayer found you."

"Slayer." The Hero's tone of voice made it a question. Hood nodded his head at the silent figure and said, "Yeah, best Balverine hunter since Mum. He pretty much made the Weirwoods his home. Fits right in with the goblins and faeries and trolls and such."

"And bandits," the Hero added, smiling.

"And bandits," Hood agreed.

"Does he talk?" the Hero asked curiously. The leather-clad ex-Hero looked a little spooked when he replied, "Oh, he talks. And when he does, you'll wish he hadn't."

Slayer came to a halt, and the other two instinctively did the same.

There was another Hero standing in the middle of the path through the woods, arms folded across his chest. He was dressed in the simple white outfit of an apprentice Hero, but there was a solidness to him that suggested that this was no green adventurer. Perched atop the standard apprentice uniform was a very large hat sewed in the shape of a chicken head made of thick, strong material. Completing the outfit was the proud red crest and great, big googly eyes. They could see the man's face inside the bird's open beak: another carbon-copy of Hood and the Hero. His voice boomed across the intervening space.

"Kneel before Eggzor!"

"Why," the Hero asked the universe at large. "Why, why, _why_ aren't there _any_ of me - us - that are even remotely normal? I'd settle for a few of us that aren't batshit insane, even."

"Oi," Hood protested idly, not sounding like he particularly disagreed.

"_There aren't any._"

The voice was cracked and hoarse. It brought up memories of the Grey House, and the creaking of undead bones. The Hero turned to regard Slayer, from whom the voice had originated. "Well, aren't you just the creepiest thing ever," he remarked. Hood nodded his head as if to say, 'Didn't I warn you?'

Slayer went on, unbidden.

"_No matter what path we take, there is nothing normal about any of us. Within us is the seed of greatness. Wondrous or terrible, but _never_ ordinary._"

Hood said, in a pained voice, "Slayer, please don't talk again. You haven't the knack."

"I," the chicken-man interjected, a note of peevishness in that booming voice at having his entrance upstaged, "am the Chicken Chaser. Three-time winner of the Chicken Kickin' Competition. I hold the record for the longest chicken punt ever recorded: I can kick a chicken over 80 meters! I am the last living disciple of Eggzor, the great Chicken God! I -"

"I'm sorry," the Hero broke in. "I just really can't take you seriously. It's the googly eyes, I think." Chicken Chaser swelled up indignantly and was about to launch into a tirade, when a very large fireball arced over the Hero's shoulder, and fried the poor bastard where he stood. He turned to look at his two companions, and noticed that Slayer's right hand was still smoking slightly. The look in the would-be murderer's eyes was indifferent.

"Wow," he said at last. The psychological ramifications were extreme: They were currently existing somewhere inside himself. Therefore, all of the versions of himself he had met were a part of him, however small. By killing that aspect of himself, had Slayer closed off a possible path to his future? Had a part of him just died along with that ridiculous chicken suit?

What came out of his mouth was, "One version of me just killed another version of me. I wonder if that counts as suicide."

"Assisted suicide, maybe," Hood offered, not unduly concerned at the cooked chicken man. "Let's keep going. He's starting to smell oddly delicious."

"God, I hope there isn't a version of me that's a cannibal. Of course, I was also hoping I'd never, in any crazy, mixed-up reality, wear something as silly as that chicken suit." Hood slapped him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion as they stepped over the prone man and kept walking. "Buck up, mate," he said. "He probably isn't dead. Most of us, no matter how silly-looking, are tough enough to take a simple fireball spell."

The hero replied, deadpan, "I am _so_ relieved."


End file.
